Summer is really here now. We’re knee-deep in swim lessons. It’s a delight to see Max taking to the water fearlessly this year. Last year he was a touch more timid. He managed to finish one three-week session of lessons. More or less. After the first week or so he started hopping out of the pool and trotting over to me midway through his 30-minute lesson. We could usually coax him back in to finish the lesson, but not always. Then, when the second session started, he simply refused. He’d sit right down on the concrete and look at everyone with that special Max mulishness. I decided not to push it. Give him some time, I figured, maybe next year.
Much to my surprise, I was right. From the first day of lessons this summer, Max has loved it. He says he wants to take swim lessons for the rest of his life. The next six weeks will have to do. It’s starting to feel like the rest of my life. Four days a week of lessons, half an hour for each boy. Raphael excluded. They only have those parent-n-tot lessons for kids his age. Some baby is always screaming through their entire half hour, panicked by all the water. Torture sessions. At least, for those of us on the side of the pool, listening to the screaming. I don’t think the babies like it either.
Tre is doing marvelously, of course. He started in a class that was a bit too advanced for him, but doesn’t seem to mind having been switched to the “lower” class. He’s just glad we finally got him goggles. He got to wear them in the lesson, and is now pretty sure he did everything perfectly. That’s a quote. He really is amazing. I’m usually fairly blasé about him in the water, but occasionally I’ll catch a glimpse of him, swimming across the deep end, and it stops my heart. GRAB HIM, I think, before I remember that he’s fine. He’s a great swimmer and he’s just doing what the instructor tells him.
Raphael loves the baby pool. It’s only about a foot deep, and bathtub warm. He’s getting pretty comfortable in it, squatting down until the water laps at his ears. He charges around, swiping pool toys from the other kids, and mostly has a wonderful time. But occasionally he tips over and I splash over to snatch him up. He splutters and coughs while I say calm, happy, reassuring things. Can’t have him getting a phobia. Meanwhile, I end up needing my Lamaze breathing to calm down.
About half the moms at swim lessons drive me bonkers. If I have to listen to one more mom whine at her kid to “get out, now, please, now, I mean it, now, come on, I’m getting hungry, aren’t you hungry, ok I’m leaving then, I’m going, come on, aren’t you hungry, we’ll go to McDonald’s, look, I have your favorite towel, come on, I mean it, please” – well, someone’s getting a swat. And it’s not the kid.
It’s amazing, the amount of things necessary for swimming. The towels, the toys, the juice boxes, the sunscreen, the snacks, the goggles, the swim diapers. The organizational skills to get everyone there and home again should earn me some kind of award. Ok, I did lose one beach ball, but I didn’t really like it anyhow. It kept rolling out of the van in crowded parking lots. So you could say I donated it, I didn’t lose it.
There I am, a packhorse and CEO of summer, four times a week. I slather them with the proper SPF, get everyone in their suits and to the classes on time, and hover over Raphi while his plays in the baby pool. In return I get a damp butt from trying to perch on the side of the pool, a wicked farmer’s tan, and seven total weeks of life-disrupting schedule.
Ahh, who am I kidding? This is life.